


Time and Time Again

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: ...yeah, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brance, Brexit, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Idiots in Love, Late Night Conversations, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, Tea, britain is smitten, dont @ me, god im weak for these two, im sorry, its not really an au but it is set like a week and a half ago, so modern times, sooooo much fluff, this got out of hand, yeah thats my ship name for them fite me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: After Brexit passes, Britain finds himself rather unsure of how to feel. As he often does, he seeks out France and the two of them talk, have tea, and sleep.Tldr; it's domestic modern fluff, ok, i just wanted domestic, modern, late-night fluff for these two, they deserve it
Relationships: France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 30





	Time and Time Again

**Author's Note:**

> lisTEN- i know that trains between london and paris stop at 8:30pm but...i've taken a creative liberty and made those trains a 24h thing, you're welcome.

Britain was tired. Relieved, too. As well as worried and anxious, a bit glad, but a touch disappointed. Mostly, though, he was tired. He was tired, and he didn’t really want to go home to an empty apartment and sleep alone, so instead of walking the twenty five minutes to his building, he walked ten minutes in the other direction to St. Pancras International.

Maybe it was a waste of money, or time. France may not even want to see him. But Britain couldn’t really find it in him to care terribly much. He wanted to go home and, in his heart, his home was with France.

His steps echoed through the station, still rather busy even at this time of night, the domed glass ceiling revealing nothing but dim amber light reflected off the consistent cloud cover. He bought a ticket for the 11 o’clock train to Paris from the kind young woman at the till who seemed as exhausted and eager to go home as he was. Britain thanked her quietly and she offered him a small, lopsided smile and an extension of the company’s gratitude before turning her attention to the hurried man who had stepped in line behind him. 

Having traveled so frequently without incident, Britain passed through customs quickly before he sat down on one of the many benches with a heavy sigh, ticket in hand, as he waited for the train to arrive, only another twenty minutes or so. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, relieved to find it was nothing but an innocuous news article alerting him of some new tragedy somewhere in the world. This decade was certainly starting off excitingly, with any number of truly disastrous outcomes looming in the world’s periphery, Britain was hard pressed to come up with the reason as to why everyone seemed to care so damn much about his decisions.

Should he call France to tell him he’s coming? It would be the polite thing to do, but the other may already be asleep and Britain didn’t want to wake him only to hear he didn’t want to be seen. 

The train arrived, much less obtrusively than the ones in the 19th century did, and Britain sent a quick text to France before heading over to the small crowd forming at the large sliding doors of the train.

There wasn’t much to look at as he rode from London to Paris. Most passengers slept, Britain didn’t. He stared at the fluorescent lights, answered an email, read the Wikipedia page on the coronavirus because that was the trending disease of the decade. He hadn’t seen it person yet, and he hoped it remained as such, but it didn’t seem nearly as awful as the other global pandemics he’d witnessed over the centuries. Britain hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as the others, knowing how fragile a population can be in such close quarters.

He didn’t sleep, his eyes remained open throughout the entirety of the journey, but that didn’t mean he was entirely aware of the passage of time because when the train finally stopped and the loudspeaker came on with a ‘Welcome to Paris’ in a variety of languages, the trip had felt remarkably short.

Britain departed, the scent of stale cigarettes hung in the air. The air was cold, the Paris winters nearly as bitter as those in the UK, and Britain kept his hands firmly in his pockets as he walked out of the station and to the edge of the sidewalk. France’s apartment was within walking distance, but the late hour had Britain hailing a taxi anyway. 

Street lights passed overhead like waves in the ocean, light ebbing and flowing through the window of the cab. Old incandescent bulbs illuminating the Paris night crowd. The sky was overcast here as well, though it was not raining. 

The taxi stopped in front of one of the older buildings in the city, stone architecture separating it from most of the modern city skyline. Britain tipped the driver on top of the already steep fare as an apology for the short trip. 

He stepped into the entrance hall on the ground floor of France’s building and made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor, the elevators were undergoing maintenance and repairs, had been for the past few days, as France had complained to him multiple times. 

He stopped in front of France’s door, 405, at the end of the hall, and fished his keys from his pocket. He’d had a key to France’s apartment for over a hundred and fifty years now, even if the key itself had changed with France’s handful of moves. Britain still had every key France had given him. 

The apartment was as silent as a grave and just as dark, though Britain had not expected anything different seeing as he never got a reply to his earlier text. 

He slipped off his shoes and hung his coat on the wall by the door. The hardwood floor was cool against his socked feet and Britain checked the thermostat. It was 16° in the room. 

He didn’t turn on any lights, didn’t stop by the kitchen for a cup of tea, only padded silently to the slightly ajar bedroom door. 

The curtains that hung over the singular bedroom window were open, ambient city light settling across the wooden floor and bed in an elongated rectangle. In the bed, partially covered by the duvet, France slept on his back, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. On the nightstand next to him there was a half empty glass of water and a book that France had only just started, judging by the bookmark left in after the first few pages. One arm rested on his stomach while the other stretched across the mattress and under the pillow on the empty right hand side of the bed. 

Britain’s shoulders sagged in exhaustion, he felt more tired now than he did three hours ago, than he did three minutes ago. How odd, he thought, that he had worked so hard and for so long go leave that stupid union, to get that bill passed, and now that it had, he’d immediately run here, to France. He’d fought to be alone, separate from Europe, and yet he couldn’t spend the first night of it on his own. No doubt France would find it rather ironic, if he wasn’t too busy being angry about it. It was a little too late now, but Britain did, not for the first time tonight, wonder whether or not he should even be here. 

He didn’t even bother changing, he was uncomfortable, but not enough so to justify the effort of changing. Now that he was here, he only wanted to sleep. He did slide off his belt before getting in though, setting it as quietly as he could on the nightstand and climbed into the bed, not wanting to waste anymore time between him and blissful rest. 

For a minute he laid on the bed, not even yet under the covers, wanting to be closer to France, without wanting to disturb him. He laid still, staring at the dark ceiling, focusing on a chip in the paint right above him that he hadn’t ever noticed before. France’s soft breathing filled the room, Britain couldn’t hear his own. He felt cold. He felt...alone. 

He shuffled toward the center of the bed and rolled over, placing his head on France’s chest, closing his eyes. 

He felt France shift under him slightly, his breathing changed. Britain felt a hand thread through his hair and he let out a pleased hum. 

“Bretagne?” France whispered. Britain hummed again. “Qu-” France cleared his throat, though his voice still carried the rough quality of sleep when he spoke again, “Que-ce que tu fais ici?”

What, indeed. Did Britain even know? He didn’t say anything, merely shifted his head onto France’s sternum, hearing the other’s quiet heartbeat when he did so. He felt France sigh, but didn’t hear it. 

“Rough day?” France asked, seeming to grow more awake now, to Britain’s guilt.

Had the day been rough? It had been long, exhausting, but relieving and liberating as well. Yet, if he felt relieved, why was he here at all? Did France even know what had happened? Britain took a deep breath, opening his eyes to stare at the dark wall opposite him. He spoke quietly, “It passed.” He said it like a confession, though he hadn’t been to church in decades. He didn’t explain what “it” was, there wasn’t anything else it could be.

France’s fingers stilled briefly in their minstrations before continuing again, “Je sais...” France whispered, and even for all the years he’d known France, Britain still couldn’t place his tone.

Britain brought his hand up to grasp France’s side, holding him closely, though not tightly. As though he was trying to ground himself by seeking a comfort he’d known for what felt like his entire life, “Are you angry?” Britain whispered as well, voice nearly inaudible. His grip tightened ever so slightly. Britain was hardly ever afraid, but he felt afraid now, as odd as it was.

France breathed deeply, Britain rising with it, and brought his other hand up to rest on Britain’s forearm, “Non, I don’t think so.” He breathed again, “Maybe I will be, in the morning. I certainly can be, if you want, but right now,” France tightened his grip on Britain’s arm, “With you, I don’t believe it matters so much.”

Britain found it hard to speak for a moment, his eyes burned and he closed them again before he whispered, “How can you say that now? After all this time, all the fights we’ve had about it?” Britain’s voice broke, “How can it not matter now?”

France stroked his hair tenderly, “Cher,” His tone was soft, softer than Britain had heard in a while. “It will matter, I’m quite sure. But it doesn’t matter tonight. Not now, in this room, in this bed.” France’s breath shuddered ever so slightly and his voice was tight when he spoke again, “I don’t want it to matter here, avec toi.”

Britain didn’t want to cry. He didn’t cry often and this didn’t seem very worthy of the dramatics of tears. Yet, despite his wants, he seemed overwhelmed with emotion quite suddenly. Like all of his relief, elation, anxiety, dread, and disappointment flooded him all at once and he found himself burying his face in France’s warm embrace and quiet heartbeat. He’d hardly ever felt so tired.

France didn’t say anything, only continued to run his fingers through Britain’s hair. France understood him, more than anyone ever had or ever would. Understood that to support Britain, he could not acknowledge that he was doing so because Britain couldn’t accept the fact that he had these overwhelming emotions, because he didn’t believe he needed anyone’s help, because he believed it was weak to need things from others. France understood that, understood him, and Britain hadn’t known one could love someone this much until he found himself drowning, not for the first time, in the realization that he _loved_ France, and that, somehow, France loved him too.

The hand on his forearm stilled a moment, fingers playing with the fabric of his stiff button down. France’s other hand scratched at his scalp, moving down to the nape of his neck. “Royaume-Uni, amour, you’re still in your work clothes.” France’s voice rang through the quiet room and though it had been little more than a whisper, it was deafening.

Britain only curled in slightly, physically and emotionally opposed to the idea of getting up, of facing their reality when all he wanted to do was remain in the fantasy of France’s embrace, their alcove outside the world. France, however, was seemingly insistent on it, sighing and running his hand down Britain’s back. “Get up and change, I’ll make some tea.”

Tea _did_ sound rather nice, but getting up, leaving this warm embrace, did not. And, “You shouldn’t have to get up for me,” Britain winced at the rough quality of his voice but continued, “Not when I was the one that roused you from rest.” Britain did feel guilty about that. He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve gone to his apartment, gone to bed, slept until the morning. Maybe he should’ve gone to the pub and gotten so drunk he wouldn’t have had the ability to overthink the consequences of his _decision_.

What right did he have to come here? To wake France in the early hours of the morning at a time of year when he knew the other had trouble getting to sleep? To force France to bear witness to his emotional consternation and confusion.

France scoffed, though it contained no malice, “Don’t speak as if your company is worse than the rest I briefly enjoyed. My dreams were of the unpleasant, indecipherable sort and I certainly didn’t mind the interruption.” Then he added, softly, “I’m glad you’re here Bretagne.” As if in direct contrast to Britain’s thoughts, like France could read his mind, and after over a thousand years, maybe he could.

Britain looked up to find France looking down at him, no small degree of genuine affection in his expression. His gaze was soft, honest, and open, and Britain would’ve given him the entire world if he’d asked for it.

France’s hand came up to stroke Britain’s cheek, running his thumb along Britain’s cheekbone. France was so physical, so affectionate, his hand so warm against Britain’s cheek, like fire. France was the hearth he came back to again and again, a familiar warmth he sought out in the darkest hour, his home.

He wished he could stay here forever. He wished he could always have France to come home to. He wished he knew if their future had _this_ , because now that he had it, he didn’t know if he could live without it.

“Which tea would you like, Cher?”

“Earl Grey, I think.”

France breathed a short laugh and rolled his eyes with a smile, “Pick a tea sans caffeine.”

Britain wrinkled his nose in mock disgust, “What would be the point of _that_? The caffeine is half the purpose of even drinking tea.”

France huffed, “It’s meant to relax you, not keep you up. I thought you wanted to _sleep_.”

“That’s no reason to tolerate weak, mediocre tea.”

“Which flavor of chamomile do you want?” France said, shaking his head affectionately.

Britain sighed, “I suppose lemon will have to do.”

“Parfaite, go get changed.” France was more forceful now, already shuffling out from under Britain and off the bed, hissing when his bare feet touched the hardwood floor and muttering “Il fait trop froid.” Before padding out of the room and into the adjacent kitchen.

Britain felt the loss of contact immediately, feeling oddly alone in the now empty room, even though France was hardly a handful of meters away. He tried to shake off the feeling, he was tired, that’s all. He didn’t want to dwell on it, this odd back and forth battle of his feelings, that shame he felt in wanting comfort, the cold melancholy of solitude. It was an unnecessary emotion when France was literally in the same apartment as him, he could hear the tap water fill the kettle from his place on the bed.

All he had to do was get out of the bed, if he could sit up and stand, he might shake this undue lethargy. Just move a few muscles, find the will to do something other than lay here. Breathing, yes. He should breathe. If he could get control of his breath, he could regain control of his self, his mind. France had taught him, once upon a time, that if all he could do was take one deep breath, that was enough.

He breathed, as deep as he could, as long as it took. And again.

He sat up slowly, shoulders slumping with fatigue. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, hands hanging limply, as he stared out of the fairly large bedroom window. The lights of the city lit up the scene in front of him, illuminating the drizzling rain that must have started falling somewhere between him getting to Paris and now. It floated down like flecks of gold, shining in the amber street lights. Leaving the curtains open was rather counterproductive for France, who detested the cold, but France had told Britain that it helps remind him what century it is when he wakes up in the middle of the night.

He stood, the floor was still noticeably cold through his socks, but it didn’t bother him. He walked to the chest of drawers against the wall opposite the bed and pulled open the second drawer from the bottom. His drawer.

Pulling out a pair of loose flannel pants and a long sleeved T-shirt, he changed numbly, leaving his work clothes semi-folded on the dresser, resolving to take care of them properly in the morning. 

He left the bedroom and entered the kitchen, where France stood in front of two mugs, waiting for them to steep to his satisfaction. He scrolled idly on his phone until he turned to face Britain, perhaps sensing the other there.

He smiled at Britain, but his eyes were worried and somber. He set his phone on the counter and turned his palms to Britain in an open gesture and Britain took the invitation immediately, embracing France in less than five strides. France rested his hands on Britain’s back.

Britain buried his head in the crook of France’s shoulder, inhaling deeply the scent of nicotine and the warm, cedarwood cologne that Britain liked the best on him. France had gone somewhere today, and Britain wondered distantly what the other’s day had entailed, but he was far too comfortable in their silence to break it.

After a minute France pulled back slightly, and Britain let him go, mourning the loss of contact. France turned away, grabbing the mugs of tea before turning back and handing Britain his cup with a chaste kiss to his cheek. He led him to the couch, and Britain followed easily, sinking willingly into the cushions when France pushed him down. He took a sip of his tea, sweet with the honey France had added, as France set his tea on the coffee table and went back to the bedroom to grab a blanket for them.

On his way back to the couch, France turned up the thermostat, as Britain looked on from his spot, tea warming his hands.

France sat next to him with one of the soft, warm blankets he kept in his closet, and with some maneuvering and shuffling in the relatively small couch space, they managed to find a comfortable position. Britain lay on the couch, head propped up at a slight angle on the throw pillow against the arm of the sofa, with France laying flat on top of him, head on his chest and the blanket thrown over them.

It was a position they often found themselves in, on days and nights that were harder than most. Britain was grateful for their routine now, he could feel himself relaxing with the familiarity of France against his chest, their breathing in sync, and the dark of the living room like a blanket of calm over the two of them. It was nice, when they slept out in the living room like this, even if Britain’s neck hurt in the morning.

Exhaustion tugged forcefully at his eyelids and his thoughts were sluggish and unrelated, like a few scattered cars on a highway at night, instead of a long train heading for an invariable destination. His breaths were slow and even, as France’s were, the other may even already be asleep.

He loved France, truly he did. Even if he didn’t say it often or enough; even if he didn’t show it in physical or public affection like France did, it was still true. He didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world except right here, with France.

Britain whispered, as quietly as he could, into the dark room around him, “Je t’aime.” Because if he didn’t say it now, a release of such incredible emotion at this moment, he may not be able to face the morning.

It felt good, to say it out loud, it felt as natural and right as the breath in his lungs. He was scared to commit to his feelings for fear they might not last forever, but in this moment he couldn’t imagine feeling anything else.

As he slipped into blissful, uninterrupted rest, he heard an equally quiet whisper echo into the silent room, “Je t’aime aussi.”

**Author's Note:**

> breaking news: local american spends class time writing fanfiction about brexit, more at 11  
> in other news: are britain and france stuck in the 19th century or is it just my weird ass writing style, the world may never know  
> but uh,, thanks for reading,, this overly wordy dumpster fire,, ily all  
> for those very few of you hoping for a decennial chapter, i am so sorry that you have this instead, but its coming i promise
> 
> 16 degrees is like 60.8 degrees F for all my fahrenheit ppl, and 289.15K for all my atoms out there
> 
> the french:  
> bretagne: britain  
> que-ce que tu fais ici: what are you doing here  
> je sais: i know  
> avec toi: with you  
> parfaite: perfect  
> il fait trop froid: it's too cold  
> je t'aime (aussi): i love you (too)


End file.
